A bit like John Craven's used to be except this one is presented by a border terrier. Gaddafi was "killed in crossfire" it says on the BBC this morning. I think that they mean someone got cross and fired at him. At last, after years of atrocities and the appalling treatment of millions, it's over. Details are still sketchy, but finally....Westlife ARE splitting up. Police marksmen covering the disturbances at Dale Farm opened fire three times apparently. They won a goldfish, a teddy bear and an inflatable hammer. Black schoolboys are failing at school on purpose as being successful is seen as uncool or even "gay" is another story that grabs my attention on the Beeb. I didn't know Richard Branson was black. Pooh count: just the one, a special steaming (it's cold out there) coiled pyramid with a little Libyan flag on a cocktail stick stuck in the top of it.
Now she's got two wrinkly little scroats to look after. Pooh count: just the one, which strangely bore more than a passing resemblance to Mr Sarkozy and would quite possibly be of more use in sorting out the European debt crisis than he is. It's in the post to Angela Merkel right now.
And we turned the corner into the Market Square and there was this great big drunken coloured gentleman dancing on the roof of a car outside the pub. Making a right mess he was. Suddenly this young copper appears and hisses into his walkie talkie "there's a great big pissed-up darkie dancing on the roof of a car in the Market Square here Sarge." The sergeant chastises: "You can't say that officer, please use proper police terminology." So the copper says "OK, Whisky, Zulu, Tango, Sierra." Honest, I saw it with me own eyes and heard it with my fluffy little ears.
I see that Kev off Corrie has split with his wife of 25 years. I'm not surprised, she's obviously far too old for him at that age. Meanwhile Liam Fox has fallen on his sword, not the only one then eh Adam? Wales coach Warren Gatland said that he considered cheating in Saturday's Rugby World Cup Semi Final but decided against it as "the French are too stupid to have noticed." Tesco are to start employing dwarfs to pack up your grocery shopping at the checkouts for you. "Every little helps." Classy X Factor finalist Frankie Cocozza apparently stunned the live audience at his audition by revealing a tattooed list of girl's names on his bottom. Did anybody look close enough to make sure that they were tattooed on there and not just smeared in brown I ask myself. Talking of which, today's pooh count: five - one of which has your name on it Frankie so get checking the post for jiffy bags sex machine.
I see that Moonbeam has got himself a launchpad in New Mexico from where he plans to operate "Virgin Galactic" which offers the opportunity to have five minutes weightlessness in space for just $200,000 a pop. Me Dad says that he'd happily kick Branson up the arse so hard that he can enjoy as much weightlessness as he wants for free should their paths ever cross. Pooh count: four, and impressive start to the day it has to be said making me certainly less weighty if not exactly weightless myself. Check the post tomorrow Branson.
Was out for a walk with me Dad this morning and upon me answering an urgent call of nature he was confronted by this buffoon screaming "stop him, stop him, your dog's having a crap!" To which me Dad replied "don't worry mate I've got some bags, I'll clean it up." They're so bloody fussy in Waitrose aren't they? Then as we were walking down the main road this bloke comes up to me Dad and says "excuse me pal, what's the quickest way to the hospital?" Me Dad says "just close your eyes and cross the road here mate and you'll be there in about 15 minutes."
Me Dad was upstairs yesterday when a very large wasp flew into the lounge. Me Mum doesn't like wasps, in fact nobody does do they, they are the Carlos Tevez of the insect world. So she swiftly shuts it in the lounge and yells upstairs for me Dad to come and see this MASSIVE wasp/sort the problem out. "Yeah right, I'll be down in a minute or two he says." Dead casual like. Then the phone starts to ring. Except me Mum isn't going to answer it is she, as that would mean entering the lounge where this buzzing Cesna thing is is. So me Dad realises after five or six ring rings that this is the case, so in a Basil Fawlty type "right, leave it to me, I'll do that as well then shall I, shove a brush up me arse and I'll sweep the floor as I'm running round" sort of moment he comes running down the stairs. Vaults the stair gate (there to stop me going UP the stairs), bangs his knee..ring, ring...takes a stunned 20 seconds or so to open the lounge door (it's NEVER shut cos the handle is a bit stiff), bursts into the lounge...ring, ring...swatting giant killer wasps like Indiana Jones he is...ring, ring..only to pick the phone up a nanosecond after it stops ringing. To which he eloquently releases a string of expletives Gordon Ramsey would have blushed at. Something to do with the dubious nature of the caller's parentage and some other stuff I didn't quite catch, cat flaps or something, only to then hear a faint "er, hello it's Mr Robinson here from the something or other gardening society." It seems that me Dad DID in fact make it to the phone in time after all and this was the elderly secretary of some stuffy old gardening society that me Mum has joined who's just added a few words to his 76 year old vocabulary. I sometimes think that I'm the only sane one in here. Pooh count: three. One of which looked like Carlos Tevez actually, cut off at the neck, with a Stevie G (I do eat a lot of carrots) and a Nicholas Anelka on the bench. Smokin.